Coffee in rain. Friends. This is too sweet. Checkers. Napkins. Voice mails in the rain. I miss you.

After the store closes, we can have our laughs, our drinks. STARBUCKS, TOO COMMERCIAL.

Saying I love you. And when?

I gave the wrong change today. But was he so nice about it all! You tell me a funny story, now I feel better.

Here's the thing. Alone. Jazz music. Dim lights. Accents, and cheap novels for a big man. The Skype sound. The sun was NOT shining, Mr. Sinatra. Fogged, thick windows. Free water. Free People. Hippie things. No longer for me. Hung that phone up. No parties tonight for me. Bike in the headlights. A thin, taupe jacket. Where is my dinner tonight? Where is my heart tonight? It is happy-- it is alone.

Friday, March 30, 2012

so much to say about this particular spot. it's not aesthetically much, pretty drab for being a hospital/medical school with scrubs and white coats walking around and tall trees spurting out from everywhere along Parnassus. then there's the 43 and paramedic shuttles rushing through, up and down the road. like i said, it's drab not pretty. but i still find it pretty. it's a very unique space of San Francisco, its own medical district it seems. well, one thing's for sure: doctors gotta keep caffeinated-- it makes sense there's a Starbucks here.

it's not all that unfamiliar to me. i'd been out here about six years ago, when my aunt was having surgery. it was a hold-your-breath moment in life (my aunt's better now, living life and happily married abroad in Indonesia), but the place seemed comforting to me. it was sunnier when i came to visit her, and more busy; i saw families and students along with nursing staff and such walking around. outside the buildings, all was cheerful. and not to mention there's an incredible view of the city from this place, up near Twin Peaks. i liked it then, and i like it now-- it's one of the first places of San Francisco that i was really exposed to, and i distinctly remember reading in the car that day two books-- A Tree Grows in Brooklyn and The Catcher in the Rye, and for some reason having read those while driving through the hills of San Francisco and looking around, i felt really influenced, by everything going on in that moment. it's a fond memory, and i really should like to bring those books back here to read again-- would those feelings come back, i wonder?

wasn't much writing here today as much as reading for my Harlem Renaissance class-- Nella Larsen's Quicksand is moving slow for me but it's sure an interesting read. and thank goodness i got a seat at last; had to wait fifteen minutes for inside seating, taking to a chair outside the entrance that was just out of reach from the POURING RAIN. so windy, so wet, but not so cold. still, better to be inside.

so glad the rain's calmed down, and i look forward to a better, dryer weekend, fingers crossed. but it's not that i hate the rain-- it's such a romantic disposition, and a challenge to the human spirit; it's really what you make of the rain and the shadow it casts upon the world. i love it, but then again i don't want to be smothered by it-- smothered by dampness and a possible cold, i reckon.

Monday, March 26, 2012

That public chalkboard there, tacked to the ratty sallow planks of that vacant shop, it got Tommy all excited. She was taken there after the quick lunch at Popeyes up Divis, she sure was famished and could eat anything. She wrote her name first and moved aside for Tommy to write his with a lump of blue chalk from the wire basket. He bolded his name under the huge D I C K S another wandering dissident scribbled in red. They tied the names together with a +.

Tommy's decent now. Works by the docks for an espresso machine packer near the West Oakland tracks. Pays the $925 for his place off of I-680, and makes sure the pantry's stalked with Yerba Matte for the sensitive roommates. He's got his third flimsy notepad from the 99 cent place to keep him company on his commute to West Oakland. When he reaches that destination he wonders if it's the real thing. If he should still keep onward until the City.

He's writing nonstop those messy love letters stapled in the red ink to the yellow paper, words she would never know and wouldn't understand now. Some days Tommy sits in the car thinking he should go on. He's decent, but he doesn't understand himself.

That public chalkboard still there, tacked to the ratty sallow planks of that decay, Tommy doesn't understand why he shouldn't go forth and see it again. Has she seen it? Did they fade?

Tommy's decent now.

She'd not understand now.

And what it means to stay the same now, seeing if the names of that golden past still in dust, still + hand in hand? Decent Tommy, these things do you understand?

Sunday, March 25, 2012

here is a new board i made on Pinterest, one of things i want to do, places to go, things to find and make mine.
it's not so exciting as you might think, just simple things that would make my life feel complete. some notable things

see Green Day in concert. i ALWAYS miss the opportunity. next time i refuse not to.

visit my favorite town in England, Lyme Regis.

eat sweets from Ladurée.

work for/ contribute to The New Yorker.

own a doberman.

host a roof top party, particularly here on top of The Metreon in San Francisco.

the perks of rearranging the bedroom is that i now have a reading wall. by my definition, this is a wall in which the bed is conveniently propped up against in order for a reader to sit against comfortably and read, work, web surf, etc. usually i sit with a pillow behind for better support of the back, but most days i just sit and continue cross-legged reading and such.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

they like, NEVER come to the United States. it's ridiculous. and they make incredible music. a really unique and experimental sound that doesn't just stay to rock. love these guys. but even more i love concerts, which i've been deprived of for so long! last was The Airborne Toxic Event in June. but this is KASABIAN. such a great band from England that's pretty much overlooked in the United States. shame on you there, Uncle Sam. for shame

having finally caught up on sleep, i wake up to Saturday, and it's raining out. very lovely, although spring is taking its toll on me and i long for sunshine.

staying in, i really feel like watching Paris, a 2008 film of different lives in the City of Love that intertwine. ABSOLUTELY LOVE THIS FILM. these films work so well with urban lives, how a place so grand and known is taken in context of individual little lives, ones that each make up the identity of that city, in this case Paris. i don't know, but portmanteau films just work for me and pulls at my heartstrings, reminding me that everyone lives a different, but extraordinary life.

one of my favorite characters is in this film. Laetita is a young college student in Paris, played by Mélanie Laurent, a beautiful French actress and director. even though i question Laetitia's moves and reasons behind her dating two men at the same time (especially her own French History professor probably 40 years her senior), she has an interesting story to her that i can identify with, for lack of better words.

a typical college girl having fun and doing her own thing, just living life and giving herself thrills and seeing which paths she can go down. i wouldn't say she's a slut, but quite manipulative, especially since she knows she's pretty. and she uses it to her advantage. at one point Pierre, the protagonist at the center of the film, living on the sidelines observing everyday life from his apartment while he waits for a heart transplant surgery to fall through, notes that the citizens of Paris "don't know how lucky they are, walking, breathing, running... Carefree in Paris..." just lucky to be living, and not have to face an uncertain future like he shall.

i'm not too sure about Laetitia though. her story playing out in the film, into the last scene where she's at a cafe with her boyfriend and looks out to the window at Pierre in the taxi, she's just going with things as life gives them to her. she doesn't seem to neglect anything, she tries everything. even when she calls it off with her professor Roland, it's not cause she's out to be a heartbreaker-- he just really wasn't who she thought she wanted, to me. sometimes things in life work, and sometimes to your dismay they don't,

but you're sure glad it was there and you gave it a go. she's an interesting character, and ways the typical college student just finding herself and getting on with life and finding that right direction-- not to mention, i really love her simple but chic style and fresh natural look with minimal makeup. it's very confident, and that's exactly who she is.

i highly recommend Paris, a well-written and captivating film that reminds viewers to step back and look out to everyone's lives, and above all else admire what's going on in yours.

Friday, March 23, 2012

in class today i wasn't aware that we were supposed to bring Cane, so i sat idly writing in my short story notebook.

i wrote a considerable amount of really really short works. too bad i don't really remember them now. i mean, i haven't had the best sleep in the past 24 hours. but then again maybe all-nighters do the trick to getting the best writing juice out of you. i don't even know how i came to the stories i wrote. i do like the names, however

good news is that a good talk with fellow classmate Liz is all it took to bring my sanity and confidence back to normal level and strive onward with a stronger backbone to this paper. basically, she reminded me what most English professors advise, what i myself have forgotten through the books, poems, lectures, and scholarly journals:

don't go too broad, stay on track and less is more.

i did just that-- my 7 different poets to cite have been narrowed down to 2. thank god! and thank goodness that it's Wednesday, my day off. all day to write and prepare this paper and sneak some gym time in between somewhere.

but i'm human, so here's some sites i've been surfing/procrastinating to while doing research:

It wasn’t much of a thrill to Cal, but his knowing was a
sort of initiation into the act. It usually happened on Thursdays, sometimes Sundays,
always her calling first. She liked Cal’s place because there was a balcony,
with rotting wood and wilting plants in teal clay pots that belonged to Cal’s
girl, but mostly that the balcony was on the top floor away from the views of
any of the other apartments.

Daylight savings had just happened—that night she called
there was light still in the sky. Stepping through the threshold onto the
cramped little balcony she nodded approvingly to the pink sky and said to Cal,
“It’s a good time, tonight.”“Guess so,” Cal replied,
closing the door softly behind him. “Liz sleeps like a rock. Work’s getting to
the both of us, I tell you. Good thing about her coming home early is rest. Not
me.”

“No kidding.” She grabbed the carton of Camels from under
one of Liz’s pots.

“Uh huh. I gotta let some old college bud of mine come
around the place to sit and talk good shit about life and how unemployment’s
being a bitch.”Kelly’s laugher was rough and
slightly shook the shot glasses in Cal’s hand. It didn’t match her posh
cleaned-up Amy Winehouse appearance in that polka-dot dress she was wearing.
“It’s not being a bitch anymore!” she started. “I got a contact from a temp
lady this week, honest. Something over in San Mateo at a packing place.
Assistant, receptionist, or slut one of those.”“You reply?” Cal poured Jaeger
into the glasses and handed one glass—and with a lighter—to Kelly.

“Fuck no. I’d have missed today.” She pulled her
bracelets off and over the scars that were well concealed beneath the beads and
bangles. She lit up, and after a few calming smokes she stuck the stick
directly onto the last infliction that was barely scabbing. She gave the same
cigarette to Cal, who snatched it and lightly tapped the lit end onto his upper
arm.

“It calms your nerves, makes you want to eat less,” Kelly
was saying after a drink of the Jaeger, “but we take it to a whole new level.
Of all the things people say about smoking, they don’t beat this.”Maybe it was the nicotine. Or
the ash. The fire was small, and perhaps that was really why the pain wasn’t so
harsh upon the skin. After a second tap on his shoulder, Cal looked to Kelly,
who was stroking her left arm anticipating her turn. It was charred, it seemed,
pocked with raw and rough lesions. Cal’s looked natural, like moles. As Kelly
went on cursing the temp woman, Cal wondered about the extent to which his arms
would start showing.

Liz started to see the changes. “Holy shit,” she
exclaimed one breakfast, pulling his arm back from the espresso machine. The
scab was rising through the sleeve of his white v-neck. “I know that’s never
been there before, babe.”He pulled away, rushing to put
the ground beans in and over-filled the filter. “I swear that too. Saw it this
morning, maybe a bug bite.”

“Hope to God it is so,” Liz said stroking the arm softly.

He made sure Kelly came after dinner that week, as Liz
would be out for the night babysitting her sister’s boys. It was a better
night; Kelly was more focused, rather enthusiastic. He did the usual two, she
maxed at seven. But on his last one she leaned over and kept his hand in place,
making sure the butt got deeper and pressed longer against his arm. “It’s a
tension release,” she said rather excitedly.

Two weeks passed, and Liz saw that the bump wasn’t gone.
Coming home from work, Cal was checked a voicemail from his doctor. “You called
Dr. Martin?” he asked to Liz, coming out from the bedroom.

“I don’t know what to do,” she said, sitting down at the
kitchen table and burying her face in her smooth, porcelain arms. “Hasn’t it
been any concern for you?”“Bites take time to heal—”

“Bullshit, just bullshit. It’s scaring the shit out of me
how it’s gotten worse, and you still
think it’s gonna go down.”

There was a long pause. “I’m not going to see Dr.
Martin,” he firmly said.

“Don’t be fucking dramatic.” He couldn’t be at the place
anymore. He grabbed the keys and walked out.

Kelly was sure surprised, but not in any distress over
her lack of accommodating a guest. The room she rented was pretty minimal,
white lumpy beddings and a black wooden bed against gray walls where she’d hung
some magazine clippings and photos. The only real colors to the room were her
red pillows and yellow ashtray—flowing with burnt out butts.

Cal said nothing, only sitting at the edge of the bed and
rolling back a sleeve. Kelly had been doing it already herself before his
arrival. “Just one more,” she said.

“I can wait.”He’d forgotten in a matter of
minutes, listening to Kelly go on and on about the sensations she was just
getting, sipping coke from the can and amusing at the legends before her. Film
stars, mafia crooks, Victorian London gentlemen in their humble clubs out
playing pool and sitting by fires—they all shared the joys in the cigarette. It
got Cal thinking, and he never really thought during these sessions.“And what joy do you share
with them?” he finally asked her.

She flung her head back and smiled. “See those guys, they
had to take it in. With us, pal we take it on the outside. I’m not getting
killed, I’m not.” She paused on her own words, continuing, “There is joy in
smoking, as there is pain. There’s the pain in the burn, the sharp pinch of it
and the fire searing into the flesh.”“Uh huh.”

“I’m amazed Cal. You never once asked why I’m into this
shit. You’ve always been a pal, and you’re still one. I’m sure as fuck going
downhill, and you, you’re going down with me.”“I’m not going down, Kelly.”
He started thinking—missing—Liz at the apartment, alone and worried endlessly
about Cal. She didn’t even know Kelly existed.

“Yes you are. You never questioned me once, but you took
interest to the butt. We do it ‘cause we know there’s better out there. The pain
of something so small and scarring as the cigarette doesn’t compare to what
good awaits us. This is rock bottom, and the burns say so.”

Cal didn’t stir. His hand moved to his shoulder, pressing
onto the raw flesh that was charred. He stood up, about to leave—his arm sleeve
was still rolled up.

“So soon?” Kelly asked, looking surprised.

“I uh,” he began to answer, “I need to make an
appointment with my doctor.”

“You’re not staying for one?”

He stopped, turning around to say, “I guess just one.”He flipped the cigarette
around and took a drag before stepping out.

Monday, March 19, 2012

Two one-ways, $30 spent on 2 Amtrak papers with our future written in blue ink.

We woke up on cold benches 9 am, the heat slowly creeping from above the green canopy, outside the adobe mound that was the Davis train station. It was E Street, and a few blocks down you Sal, you paid for our breakfast in the Black Bear Diner.

Sitting in the grass on the front-lawn of some sorority with chipped white shutters we had to figure out what we wanted to do.

You and I Sal, you and I-- someplace, and shitfaced-- we remembered that our girlfriends their moms and our moms had always believed in "home is where the heart is."

Friday, March 16, 2012

Loud lovers on Bart. Morning meet up at King's coffeeshop on Clayton Road, the old gang always eager to talk life and other bullshit of their standards. In their corner, it's a pleasing sight for friendships-- or perhaps strangers finding consensus in maple bars and chocolate French curlers.

This is California. Oakland and fog. There are palm trees here. Even in December. That's when they flourish.

Wednesday, March 14, 2012

Jack Kerouac’s defining classic now a motion picture on its way, On the Road. need to see this ALONG with the new The Great Gatsby.

only thing i am getting irritated by is how much popularity the movie
is getting because of Kristen Stewart. when they talk about this film
they only refer to her role and acting in it— but THAT’S NOT THE POINT.
this is a classic story and one of the most celebrated modern novels
being adapted into a potential film masterpiece..Kristen is not the real
Marylou or Luanne Henderson— she’s just the actress in the film.

but life isn’t about sleeping. if i gave today in for more sleep, i
wouldn’t have experience a fun-filled 8-hour time about the City. so no
sleep. well— yes, sleep, but don’t live to sleep. whenever i am tired
and dread the next day, i always remember how tomorrow will be wonderful
and all the possibilities in this happening— i can always sleep, sleep
when i’m dead.

Sunday, March 11, 2012

it was a small but very lovely place. the rustic charm of California coast, contrasting to the sunny skies and palm trees rooting from dry rock and sand. i liked it very much. good thing to layer when out along Highway 1, that's for sure!

too many cute crafty boutiques to name! i amuse that a good town has AT LEAST the 3 items of a liveable accommodations for ANYONE:bookstorecaféclothing shop

notable stores that exceeded expectations were The Posh Moon and The Paper Crane, with the Crane having a plethora of beautiful stationery and their own print-making in the back :)

going down the highway to San Gergario Beach, it got less cloudy and the sun was sure bright. such a fun time there:

there was a great valley on the way to San Gregario; it was so beautifully placed below the highway and rolling with hills and deep greenery. this was truly John Steinbeck's Pastures of Heaven to me:

this was surely a fun-filled little road trip. it wasn't New York or San Diego or where i've seen most people on Facebook head out to this year. doesn't mean, however, that this day meant nothing.

one last look, Cameron's British Pub and Inn along the road. sincerely felt like it was a true English pub out in the Yorkshire Dales. we didn't eat inside, but there was an amusing little gift shop of all the English foods and dry goods that my sister's boyfriend Mark (an Englishman himself) showed and explained to me.